Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [115]
Manshoon bowed his head in dismissal. "Your reward, then, will be very great. Go in power."
Avaerl turned on his heel, robes swirling, and strode away down the path between two waiting lines of motionless armored forms. They turned in unison to face him as he passed, impassive visors down, but made no sound or other movement.
Avaerl carefully did not look at any of them. Their silent vigilance unsettled braver magelings than he. It was whispered among the lesser wizards of the Brotherhood that the suits of armor were empty, or appeared to be. Fell spirits, or worse magic, moved them to Manshoon's will. Helmed Horrors they were called.
When Avaerl stepped onto the spell-guarded stair that led away from Manshoon's cave-lair, the last two Horrors stepped forward behind him to ceremoniously cross curved, naked blades, barring passage along the silent gantlet the ambitious mageling had just walked.
Ascending steps that glowed vivid blue under his feet, Avaerl heard that whisper of metal kissing metal, and shivered involuntarily. The very sight of the uncanny Horrors chilled him, probably because the cold, deadly watchfulness of Manshoon himself moved them. It was a reminder-deliberate, without a doubt-of the awesome power of the Lord Most High of the Zhentarim.
Not for the first time, Avaerl thought himself crazy to even contemplate challenging Manshoon, some day, for lordship over the Brotherhood. Yet… with the power of Elminster, the Old Mage of Shadowdale, under his belt, bards would tell a different tale. He grinned as he saw himself blasting Manshoon to screaming bones, the Overmage's mind pleading for mercy as it faded away, the bones softening, sagging, and collapsing into wind-whirled dust before Avaerl's might.
Gulkuth, he reminded himself. Gulkuth. His key to making this mere dream into reality. It was a mage's truename, the key to mastery over the man, whoever it was. By where he'd found it, written in blood on a hidden altar, it belonged to a wizard alive today. A wizard who served Bane. A wizard of great power.
One of the Inner Ring of the Brotherhood, without doubt. But who? Or was it a trap laid by one or all of them against ambitious mages?
Avaerl dared not reveal that name until he had power enough to use it. That meant magic enough to overmatch Manshoon, for the name could very well be his.
If it was Manshoon's truename, and Avaerl held the knowledge and power of Elminster, the Lord Most High could not stand against him. The Zhentarim would know a new lord.
And then a small, cold voice deep inside him added, "For a little while." Avaerl shivered again as he reached the top of the stair.
* * * * *
As the blades came softly together at the far end of the gantlet, Manshoon beckoned with a long and lazy arm. One of the dark-robed and cruel-faced men who'd stood silent and motionless among the dark, fanglike stalagmites stepped smoothly forward.
"Zalarth, I have work for you."
"I await your orders, my lord."
Cold eyes met. Each stared into cold, falling depths in the soul of the other, and Manshoon said slowly, "Follow that puppy and do what he will undoubtedly fail to do."
"Me, my lord?" Zalarth asked, inclining his head at other, mightier mages who stood watching from the shadows.
Manshoon held his eyes. "I trust you the more," he said coldly, "and believe your thinking in battle to be clearer. You shall succeed where he fails, and bring me Elminster's head… if you would rise in our councils."
"May I use items, or the aid of others?"
"Use what you deem necessary."
* * * * *
As Zalarth climbed the glowing stairs in his turn, faces swam in his memory-faces of thieves and trained killers of the Brotherhood. From those faces, the Zhentarim wizard chose the members of the band he would lead. Elminster would die. Manshoon had commanded the death; it was as good as done.